


bury me beautiful

by ripplingtale



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25970575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripplingtale/pseuds/ripplingtale
Summary: The world is not as merciless as you take it to be.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	bury me beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> The Song of Achilles belongs to Madeline Miller, and I, as a writer, didn't take any material profits from the content here. This is an impulsive piece wrote mostly because I Have So Much Feelings. There are mentions of blood and the like, nothing to graphics, I hope, but just in case.

“Patroclus, you have to fix you sleeping habits.”

Briseis tapped his cheek, rousing him awake from daydreams half-made. She watched as Patroclus blinked at her, slow and deliberate, her own gaze gleamed with concern built with care. He needed time to take control over his limbs, head slowly raised from the desk strewn with papers and books; stacked homeworks not yet touched, nevermind done. His hand knocked the bag sitting by his side, the sound of clacking cans quiet below the table.

Patroclus gulped the iced coffee offered to him, brows wrinkling over the bitter taste brimming on his tongue, foreign and sour. His voice almost drowned in the chatters of the coffee shop. “I slept.” It sounded like a lie, stumbled light for reassurance. Dark circles made home underneath his eyes, exhaustion wreathing his countenance. Patroclus sighed, leaning into his palm, waiting for the caffeine to kick in so he could continue working.

Briseis sipped her drink. “Did you still get nightmares?” Her voice was soft, mild.

“It’s not exactly nightmares.” Or so he thought, or so he wanted to believe. There was plenty of blood, yes, plenty of flesh frayed open, bones crackled ashen. He remembered the taste of bile, of fear, he remembered how it felt when his fingers grasp a hilt and drove a blade into the chest of a man, and then another, and then another, and then the wall. He remembered someone holding his hand, soft lips upon his cheek, his neck, his ribs, his heart.

“Then?”

Patroclus was awake. “I don’t know. It’s so vivid sometimes, it blurs my memories,” he said, his finger traced the nonsensical pattern over the wooden desk, carved brown and dark. He glanced at the counter, where a line of hungry passerby started to form as lunchtime rolled in. The scent of newly made pastries made his stomach let out the quietest rumbles. He should eat something, he thought, perhaps it would make him more awake.

“Maybe doctors will help?” It wasn’t the first time she told him this since Patroclus told her about the dreams, the nightmares, the things he had seen that wasn’t here, never there. The swords, the spears, the blood. She was caring and sweet and sometimes Patroclus wondered what it took to be so gentle and kind. “I’ll go with you if you want.”

Patroclus didn’t want to turn her down, to tell her that he did think about it. However, he didn’t want to; he didn’t think even doctors would understand, he couldn’t think how he would make them understand. He smiled, “Thank you.” The concern alone was enough. He found warmth in the way she spoke; familiar fire kindled in a furnace deep across his thought.

Briseis, too, smiled. “Let’s finish these, then, you need more sleep.”

Patroclus shifted his gaze, frowning at the papers and the books. Another sigh escaped his lips when he picked his pen, squinting at the first task he had to work on. He might be dreaming of wars and battles, but his homeworks weren’t of spears and blades, or lean shoulders that tensed as he kissed the skin over taut muscles.

His hand stopped working, but Briseis didn’t see it.

They finished at late afternoon, when the sun was starting to wane into evening. Patroclus bid his friend goodbye across the glass doors, strung with bells silver and light. He watched as Briseis’ back slowly eased into the crowds before he turned and stepped through, his bag gripped tight in his hand, slung over thin shoulder made only by bones.

The world was loud. Words buzzing with thrums, churning into white noises. There was a laugh, a yell. Patroclus stepped to the side when a pair of children rushed past him, their grins candied with delight. He turned to watch the guardian ran past his back, apologizing as she chased after the children. His eyes lingered to their figures, then to the streetlamps that started to hum alive; lights flooded the streets, the roads, the people, him.

Patroclus blinked at a billboard on the roof of a building across the road, his steps halted. He didn’t think he had seen it before, it must be new. The advertisement was about a brand of cat food, but that wasn’t important. Thoughts ran through his head, five at a time, frenzied ideas built above one and another, piling up.

His legs dashed before he could sort his mind.

Patroclus leaped into the traffic, earning screeching brakes and angry yells. He didn’t stop to apologize, to spare a glance and see what had he done. He ducked to the side of the building, head bowed, eyes searching for the stairs nailed to the side of the wall. His hand seized the iron railings, and he heaved himself up the fire escape.

There was something that he didn’t tell Briseis, that his dreams were not always a war waged against castles walled high. Sometimes Patroclus dreamt of someone; a figure, a young man. He dreamt of golden hair, green eyes, slender fingers holding onto his hand. He dreamt of a laugh, a smile, twinkling gaze, gleaming stars. He never dreamt of the face, of the countenance, he never dreamt of the name, only his voice as he called Patroclus’ name.

Patroclus. Pa-tro-clus. It was a strange name, he knew, people would raise their eyebrows high up when they first heard it. But it was his, it felt like his, and it was all right.

He took a breath, holding his heartbeat. The roof was empty and bright, Patroclus looked up to the empty space behind the billboard. His bag was casted with a thump, hands ripping the zipper open. He rummaged past papers and books, pulling out spray paints haphazardly shoved to the bottom of his bag, hidden under everything else.

This was how he remembered his dreams, the battles, the wars, the weight of spear in his hand. This was how he remembered the boy in his dreams, one part of a time, never the entire countenance; an eye on the alleyway, a hand on the back of a building, a nose on the wall, an ear, lips. This was how he asked the world whether it knew, whether it understood, whether they had seen him all golden and fair.

Have you seen him? He would ask.

The world was quiet and burning bright.

Briseis wasn’t done with her class when Patroclus arrived at lunchtime. It wasn’t like he was in a hurry, nor he had any other company, so he waited for her to come out.

There was an empty space around Briseis’ faculty building, decorated as a park that slanted to a grassy field. Trails winded around trees, maples and oaks, offering shades from the unforgiving afternoon sun. Benches placed besides bushes wild of blossoms, trimmed only when the branches started to trip a poor student’s leg, or when someone of importance paid a visit over something quite significant. People sat here and there, busy with their tasks or words, their conversations were silent underneath the wind.

Patroclus plopped into one of the benches, eyes turned to the field. His gaze pulled to a group of people standing in the far corner, mostly by how peculiar they looked. It might be the way they stood, he mused, watching as three of them made a running stance, they stood as if they had something to lead, something to hold, something to fight for. They also didn’t look like a group formed out of their own freedom, with how different they looked like to each other; one was tall, one was not so much. One looked like he might punch someone who looked at him wrong, one looked like he came to the church every Sunday morning tops.

But then again, Patroclus and Briseis were also an unlikely pair.

Patroclus watched as one of them clapped his hands, and the three young men dashed forward. One was fast, faster, he overwhelmed the others only in mere steps; his golden hair glinted beneath the sun, vivid across the green and the brown and the blue and the shadow that danced below the skies. He was colorful, almost in the literal sense. Patroclus held his breath as the nameless young man dashed across him, pulling all the hues as he ran, pushing all the color into his steps. The world muted into black, white, grey, he was alight like a shooting star with a trail of fire.

When the golden-haired boy skidded into the finish line, Patroclus almost could taste his smile; sweet, but not in the way sugar would, not cloying like caramel nor saccharine like vanilla. Patroclus almost could hear his laugh, the way victory dripped on his tongue alike honey and rain. He almost could reach his hand, touching him, caressing his cheek, would his fingers still be so soft, despite how he was built to hold blades and spears and death drenched in blood?

A dull ache throbbed in his chest, a longing so sharp that he couldn’t think of what, a yearning so painful that he forgot of whom. When Patroclus blinked, his hand was in the air. Just a little more, his fingertips hovered above those golden hair. Just a little bit, but there were so many distances between the two of them.

“Patroclus? Sorry, did you wait long?” Briseis sang behind his shoulder, Patroclus pulled his hand back before she could ask more. He turned to find her smiling, her eyes gleaming bright.

He shook his head, returning her smile with one of his own. When he turned to pull his bag, his eyes caught golden hair in the corner still, and everything that he wanted to say churned into a question that supposed to be left unsaid. “Briseis, do you think we can dream of someone we have never met?” Patroclus watched as the golden-haired boy laughed at the end of his query, in such way he could hear it loud and clear across the field.

Briseis was quick and smart, her eyes followed Patroclus’ line of sight, but she couldn’t pinpoint who or what, and she never meddled with something that Patroclus wasn’t ready to say. Her voice was soft, kind, she was everything daydreams wished to be, if only the world was just a little bit cruel, if only the universe was just a little bit unfair. “I heard every face you see on your dreams are from your memories. There is a chance you already seen a stranger in your dream at least once in real life.”

Her words rippled in his mind, like an echo pressed into the surface of a water deep and dark. Patroclus mused as he shook the spray paint in his hand, the streetlamp was flashing behind his back. The golden-haired boy was familiar, but Patroclus didn’t think he had ever seen him before. He might be from humanities majors in the other side of the university, or business majors as Patroclus never encroached into their territory. He didn’t think he would miss someone so colorful and bright, it would be like missing the sun.

Night wind rushed past his frame, the air was dry and warm. Patroclus absentmindedly started to work, barely stepping back to consider his lines. Golden and green, golden and green, golden and green, silver for the skin, grey for the muscles and the nerves that made him. Golden and green, golden and green, golden and green, Patroclus frowned when his spray paint let out a hack as he pressed over the cap. Golden turned yellow, flaxen and plain; the paint started to ran out of its hue. Patroclus stopped working then.

When he worked, he remembered the boy in his dreams. The faceless, nameless young man who called upon his name in such way it was a wish strung with gleaming thread.

Have you seen him? He would ask.

Yet, when Patroclus stepped back, what greeted him was the golden-haired boy across the field. His countenance was so vivid and striking, fiery, _lively_. Should one who knew him take a glance at this wall, surely they would know it was him who was painted above the faded graffiti, it was him who was depicted alike gleaming hails beneath midwinter sky.

The world was quiet and burning bright.

Patroclus couldn’t understand why, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. This was how he remembered his dreams, the battles, the wars, the weight of spear in his hand, the scant of heartbeat as a blade pierced his chest. This was how he remembered the boy in his dreams, the boy across the field; his glory on the alleyway, his victory on the back of a building, his triumph on the wall, him, him, him. This was how he asked the world whether it knew, whether it understood, whether they had seen him all golden and fair.

He didn’t know his name, he didn’t need to. Patroclus knew him by the lines of his fingers, the shapes of his shoulders. Patroclus knew him by the feel of flesh underneath his palms, by the gentle ripples of his ribs every time he took a breath. Patroclus knew him by his back, his body, souls need no names.

But when Patroclus caught the sight of him across the field the next afternoon, and then the next afternoon, and then the next, to the point he wondered what kind of tricks fates were waging against each other, his paints started to remember the glint of silver threaded between golden hair, the luster of amber around eyes of evergreen. Patroclus remembered the way the wind caressed his cheek as he ran, the way the sun pressed over his veins.

He started to wish, but hopes were better left unsaid.

What were the odds of two people having the exact same dreams? There were indeed plenty of supranatural occurrences around the world; the unexplained, the strange and the untold. However, it didn’t mean one would happen just because Patroclus wanted to. If that was how everything worked, the universe would be kinder than it was.

This particular afternoon, Briseis told him her class would be late. She told him to have lunch before her, but Patroclus didn’t mind. He would wait; he was quite good at waiting. He told her to call him when she was done, and off he went wasting the time he had all in his lonesome.

The street was lively with people bustling around trying to make the most of their lunch break, yet nothing could beat the brisk life of night. Passerby took hasty steps, students swift on their feet, each of them had destination in their head.

Patroclus stepped into an alleyway he had been eyeing for a while, rummaging through the side of his bag to pull out his spray paints. Might as well, he didn’t have anything particularly important to do, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were starting to be noticeable. Rather than losing sleep over his dreams, Patroclus knew he was starting to lose sleep over his endeavor in the night. He couldn’t stop, he didn’t want to. Every time he caught the sight of the golden-haired boy across the field, the boy in his dreams waned and blurred, his voice static, his breath silent, as if they merged into each other, as if they were one the same.

The alleyway was quiet, noises from the street muffled mute. A cat stared at him as he walked past, their eyes green with wary. Patroclus turned at the wall, seizing the space. There was a vivid graffiti at the side, still rich with hue atop old ones decaying through years exposed to the weathers. He stepped to the side and shook his can.

Without a clear goal in mind, he started to work.

He remembered his dreams from last night, like he always would. There was no war that night, no battle waged against tall wall. There was a harp, nimble fingers, petals-veined, there was a voice of velvet and satin, of blossoms blown into the wind. If only a song could be molded into colors, surely Patroclus already slapped paints over it, along with the countenance he came to trace in daydreams. He remembered the way his mouth fell open, the way a name dripped from his lips. He remembered the taste of a kiss.

When he pulled back his hand to catch his breath, a figure popped in the corner of his sight, standing at the edge of the light. Curious gaze not of a cat probing his skin, along with something quite sharp, something quite knowing. Patroclus lifted his gaze, expecting the worst; after all, his doings weren’t exactly legal, and he knew it was just the matter of time until someone, most likely Briseis, pinpointed him.

“Found you.”

Patroclus remembered the way his mouth fell open, the way a name dripped from his lips. He remembered the taste of a kiss, arms around his sides. He remembered the way his fingers pressed between golden hair, as he drank everything that made the sun. He remembered _him_ , finally, without the hitch of reveries, the glitch of nightmares. He remembered _him_ , finally, Patroclus was home again.

“Achilles.”

The moon set on his countenance when he smiled. Achilles reached first, he was a little bit taller than Patroclus remembered him to be, but it has been a while, time was ruthless and life was vicious. Achilles was warm, Patroclus smelled like paints. Smile crowded their breath, fingers intertwined in such way as if they could string their veins, as if they could weave their souls down to every threads, to every strains.

Have you seen him? Patroclus would ask, astray and adrift.

Yes, yes, yes, the world said, all golden and fair.

Then Achilles kissed him, and everything was all right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Finally after months of wanting to read the book, I have the book in my hand and immediately gulped it down like a fool that I am. I know from the start it would be sad, but I was sad anyway, nothing can stop me from being sad, I just know I have to share my sad, so here you go, fellas.
> 
> Thank you for my beta, Frey, who are so patient with my nagging and reading this piece. I don't think I'll write more of this fandom, or writing in general after all of these [gestures vaguely] situations doesn't weight as much as it is now, but one can hope.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone, take care of yourself!


End file.
